Scots Poems From The Lobster

Auld King Brude Auld King Brude he fand a bowl An screivit there aroon its band ‘gie this bowl tae the ane ye lue The verra best in aa the lan.' He's chappit on his young queen's yett He's pressed the giftie in her haun For it wis her he lued the best The verra best in aa the lan. The queen stepped oot- a sodjer met She gied the gowd bowl untae him For he it wis she lued the best The verra best in aa the lan. The sodjer crept tae his son's room He set the bowl on his nicht stand It wis his son he lued the best The verra best in aa the lan. He gaed it tae a servant lass Alas, she cudnae write or read A priest deciphered it. The quine Tuik it tae auld King Brude, fa'd freed Her as a slave. King Brude looked doon He turned the gowd bowl in his haun An wycer noo he fulled the bowl Wi watter fur his leal dug Bran Come Bran, we'll tae the huntin gae Quo he. He left his queen ahin Caimbin her lang reid hair, the jaad. Auld age that mairries Youth is blin Granny Kens Best There aince wis a laddie, Fergus, by name His faither follaed the blacksmith trade Fergus vowed he liked the smiddy Bit aa his time on dreams wis paid His faither left him fur a day Jist tend the fire, or ‘twill gang oot It is the anely thing I ask Sae mynd ye an bide resolute; Fergus wis dowpit by the anvil Fan an auld chiel hytered in Far's the haimmer, lad, he speired Bit syne he spied it, there, within The bodach wyted by the yett An there cam in an auld wumman He knelled the haimmer on her heid An killt her wi his murderous haun Noo Fergus socht his faither sair By syne the auld bodach appeared Wi guairds. He pynted Fergus oot There's my wife's killer! he aveered Fergus wis taen afore the king Fa's heid wis happit ower in byles That poppit oot an ran wi pus That addit tae the monarch's trials The king telt him I dinna care If ye are guilty, lad or nae I'll gie ye siller if ye can Cure me o byles, this misery Noo Fergus had a wyce granny He aften watched her mix her potions A cure fur byles he'd seen her makk Taen frae the store o Natur's lotions He pynted tae the king's milk kye An sent his herds tae scoop their sharn Warm, rikkin hett, the coo pats steamed An on the king's heid, clartit on Noo aince the sharn wis dry, peeled aff The lotion wirked! The byles were gaen The king rewardit Fergus weel Tae makk a future o his ain. His faither he wisnae impressed, A blacksmith Fergus wadnae be Tho noo a chyne o chemists' shops, Keep in comfort handsomely Frae an auld family recipe, By royal appyntment reads the crest The cure fur ony plooks an byles Faith, Grannies aywis ken the best The Scourge o the Heilans A muckle giant bedd langsyne In Norroway. Fowk caad him Thrim He chawed the heids aff humankind An sooked their breid, sae nurturin An aye he roared his horrid roar I'm gaun tae find ye, catch ye oot I'm gaun tae ett ye, sook yer bluid I'll chase ye doon wioot a doot The ither giants cast him aff. A twa three strides, tae Shetland, he Arrived, bit fand the trowies there Wi his digestion didnae ‘gree Tae Fair isle neist- mair o the same Sae aff tae Orkney faist he gaed An snapped them up- a tasty snack Syne on tae Caithness neist he sped Aa ben the Heilans Thrim rampaged Until he cam tae Wester Ross The fowk made plans tae ding him doon Aside the place caad Applecross They howked a pit baith deep an lang Set spikes carved ooto fir wid thonner The bairns raised up on ither side Tae mock the hairy giant scunner Fool orra moch! Feech fyachie breet! Norroway minger! Stinky taes! They skirled tae garr the giant greet an charge them ower the heathery braes A tripwire set afore the pit Cowpit the giant on the spikes The fowk heezed roon wi aixe an knife An chappt him intae teenie bites They set a lowe an burned the bits The giant's remains wir turned tae aisse That raise like rikk intae the air An ilkie bittie swore an aith I'm gaun tae find ye, catch ye oot I'm gaun tae ett ye, sook yer bluid I'll chase ye doon wioot a doot An thon is foo, until this day Midgies wir born, tae deave us aa An gin ye lippen, ye micht hear The midgies chantin, wee an sma We're gaun tae find ye, catch ye oot We're gaun tae ett ye, sook yer bluid We'll chase ye doon wioot a doot Aroon the Skirts o Morven Aince roon the skirts o Morven Knowe A cat could lowp frae tree tae tree Langsyne the widlans were sae thick Frae Ballater tae Corachree The names o parks an bens an ferms Rowe frae the tongue, like Pressendye Wi Ben na Flog, (hill o the plook) An Migvie, open tae the sky The Tarlan tykes could name them aa Pittenderrick, Mollie Watty's hill Barehillock, Melgum, Millheid's brae The Roar hill an Gillander's still The heatherscrapers o Cromar Could tell o Cauldhame an o Skookie Lazywell lochs an Futtie Park Wi Runnyben, the Clash, Auld Groddie There's Claggans, Auld Wife's Hoosie Park Rynac an Mullach, Badnachraskie The Howmies, Toft's Park, Gardiebane The Lary Burn an Bothanyettie There's Kinnagary, Broon Coo Hill The Glachan Toul, Kinnord, Balhennie Gallowshill Park an Bockie Howe Davan, the Craskins, set up bonnie Coull, Gellan, Strathmore, Culsh as weel Cauld Tomnaverie casts an ee Tae Lochnagar, laird o the glens Its icy peaks haud mystery Steenhive's Open Air Sweemin Puil Like a colony o seals Heids bob up an doon in satty watter Fowk splyter ooto the puil Dreeps skail aff their shanks Aa shoogly bellies, hairy breists Baldy heids an Tenerife tattoos Wummly bingo wings An beach baa roon bihoochies Grannies, maas an daas, halflins Littlins in goggles an hippens Some, skytin doon the chute Near beheidin the antrin Gype, paiddlin aboot at the fit o the slide Far the divers are fired oot Like skitter frae a dyeuk's erse Ithers, skeelie sweemers Like fite swans, glide Innocent pleisurs. Ithers sprauchle on tools Makkin on they're in Majorca or Corfu This is ane o Steenhive's jewels A single scurrie's eein them up frae the reef Wi ill intent. Plottin a smash an grab o ice cream or a panini It opens its yalla beak, skreichs Gie me Gie me! Watter's lichtsome, cairries The wecht o bodies like pink boaties Fair weather dookers Ae shooer o rain an they're aff Like snaa aff a dyke in heat Sliddery as granny's sookers Doric owersett of the Anonymous poem The Pig Twis an evenin in Novemmer As I mynd verra weel I wis daunderin doon the street in blootert pride Bit ma knees they lat me doon An I drappit tae the grun An a grumphie cam an lay doon bi ma side Aye, I bedd there on the grun Feelin sair an unca rum Fin a bonnie quine nearhaun saftly did cry Ye can tell a chiel fa boozes Bi the company he chuses An the grumphie raise an slawly said By By Facks Aboot Aiberdeen Mair than 30 Aiberdeens are aroon the warld The mither kirk hooses 48 kirk bells Rubislaw quarry's 480 feet deep The faistest sailin ship, Thermopylae wis biggt in the toun Star trekk's Scotty wis based on an Aiberdonian The Brig o Balgownie is Scotlan's auldest brig The herbour's a bield fur dolphins an baskin sharks Aince mermaids swam affshore, aa singin psalms Harry Houdini wis handcuffed an drapped in the port Charlie Chaplin performed at the weel-kent Tivoli The UK's auldest paper's the Press an Journal Self sealin envelopes wir invented here Aabody lues oor rowies, the seaman's favourite Fit a Winnerfu thing is a Scot! Fit a Winnerfu thing is a Scot! Frae the time he steps ooto his cot He's up an he's aff like a shot Fit a Winnerfu thing is a Scot! Fit a Winnerfu thing is a Scot! Be he creashie or skinny or squat He's the type some wid like tae garotte Fariver he is, there's a plot Fit a Winnerfu thing is a Scot! As a wirker he's aye hett tae trot Tho there's aften a twist in the knot He'll aye win the cream o the pot Fit a Winnerfu thing is a Scot! His copybuik's clean, nae a blot He's a linguist- a richt polyglot He'd be perfeck as an astronaut Fit a Winnerfu thing is a Scot! He's as strang as a punchy shallot Wi the virr o a fully rigged yacht Fit a Winnerfu thing is a Scot! Two poems highlighted in a Zoom poetry session on Trees, hosted by Roselle Angwin Doric Owersett o The Firewood Tree: Lady Celia Congreve Beech wid lowes are bricht an clear, Gin the logs are kept a year; Aik logs they burn steidily, Gin the wid is auld an dry. Bit aish dry or aish green, Makks a lowe fit fur a queen. Logs o birk wid burn sae faist, Thon's a lowe that winna laist. Chestnut's anely gweed fowk say Gin fur lang it's laid awa. Bit aish new or aish auld, Suits a queen wi a croon o gowd. Poplar makks a rikk that's wersh Fulls yer een an gars ye choke. It is by the Irish said, Hawthorne bakes the swetest breid. Bit aish green or aish broon, Suits a queen wi a croon o gowd. Elme wid burns like kirkyaird mools, E'en the verra flames are cauld; Aipple logs will fill yer chaumer, Wi an incense-like perfume. Bit aish weet or aish dry, A queen can warm her bauchles by. Doric owersett of The Hollow Tree: John Clare Foo aften a simmer shooer has stertit me Tae sikk a bield in thon great teemed oot tree Auld muckle aish-gype dwined doon tae a shell Fas sturdy heid still grew an briered weel Far ten micht sit upon the battered fleer An still luik roon an fin there's room fur mair An he fa wyled a hermit's life tae share Micht hae a yett an makk a sheddie there They seemed sae like a hoose that oor desires Wid caa them sae an makk oor gangrel lowes An ett wild denners o the sonsie peas Till we wir weet an drookit tae the knees Bit in oor auld tree-hoose rain as it micht Nae ae drap fell altho it rained aa nicht For Robbie Shepherd, Doric Champion MBE He wis a born broadcaster, screiver, maister o the Doric On TV an on radio his programmes met success At local gaitherins he wis socht, a couthie, skilled announcer At Meldrum Sports an Turriff, as a compere he'd impress Fowk mind on Takk the Fleer, The Beechgrove Gairden, sheepdug trials For aa o North East culture, Robbie Shepherd wis yer man He screived Let's Hae a Ceilidh, Dash o Doric, Doric columns At the Braemar Royal Games, he welcomed spectator an clan He wis gien a weel earned MBE fur heistin Scottish culture The years rowed on, an thanks poored in for aa his dedication Kings College it awardit him an honorary degree, Thon Dunecht loon, a dynamo, a Doric inspiration He sang as a performer wi the famed Jack Sinclair band An later in his column in the P & J he strove Tae champion oor bonnie airt in ilkie wird he penned Luik ower his darg o mony years…Ye'll find a treisur trove The warld grows smaaer ilkie day, near smorin places oot Robbie niver left his hame ahin, tae takk the gangrel's pairt Bit bedd, tae fecht his corner in oor muckle neive o lan He kept oor wyes an spikk alive, an won the public's hairt Aiberdeen, Septemmer Granite stane on granite stane Famous fowk on pedestals Wallace, Rabbie Burns, the Bruce Croodlin doos an skreichin gulls Duthie, Seaton, Hazleheid Flooers an dyeuks an lauchin bairns Fishin herons on the Dee Staun near nettles, brummils, ferns At the side o Provost Skene's See the ugsome Face o Rage Haud on tae the Art centre Groomin littlins fur the stage Marischal square: the waters daunce There is a leopard bidin near Cruise ships moored bi the Bay o Nigg Cowp oot fresh tourists: see them steer! Midnicht brings starnies ower the sea The beach is left tae san an waves In the mools o the Mither Kirk The deid sleep lichtly in their graves This is the toun far I wis schooled The rain an win & misty palls Hae washed her face an gart her shine Commerce has drained awa tae malls The River Dee's bricht copper braids Lead up tae ferms an heathery Bens The River Don rins frae its source O Lonach Games & lanely glens It is an international toun A port for shieldin ships an stores Survivin Viking raids an wars The warld cams veesitin its shores Hauf Hangit Maggie In Musselburgh ae fine day Wis born tae fisher fowk a lassie As bonnie a quine as ye micht see They named the bairnie bonnie Maggie She grew tae wad a fisher lad He wis press ganged tae jyne the navy Sae she wis left wioot a groat An penniless wis bonnie Maggie Doon tae the Borders she has gaen Untae an inn, tae earn a livin An she has borne a baby there Nae sanctified bi kirk or Heiven She's gaen doon tae the river Tweed She's floatit it upon the watter The bairn wis fand, an she wis taen Tae Embro toun, accused o slaughter They led her frae the Tolbooth strang The grisly gibbet it wis wytin The Grassmerket wi fowk wis thrang Tae see puir Maggie's public hangin Fin aa wis ower they cut her doon An laid her in a pauper's coffin In a roch cairt they bore her aff Tae Musselburgh's kirkyaird hurlin Bit fin the cobbles jogged the kist The corpse sat up, she stertit breathin The Law declared An Act o God A pardon Maggie wis receivin Noo fin her gweedman heard o this He sune reclaimed his lassie For forty years their neebors cried See, here she cams, hauf hangit Maggie!